


Matchbox of Our Own

by broadcastdelay



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Transformation, M/M, bunny!Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-15 20:35:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broadcastdelay/pseuds/broadcastdelay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Peter Hale comes back not as a weakened werewolf, but as a rabbit shifter. Who may be having some difficulties with the shifting part of that equation, and manages to get himself inadvertently adopted by one Coach Finstock. Whose strange rantings annoy Peter, until they don’t anymore, and whose complaints about Greenberg suddenly, strangely, begin to make Peter feel dangerously possessive of this new keeper of his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Canon divergent beginning at episode 2x09, though it incorporates some canonical events after that. 
> 
> The worst things referred to are all canonical (canon death, violence, possession), so if you’re good with the show, nothing here should be too traumatic. Unless, like Anya, you’re afraid of bunnies. In which case, beware of the twitchy little noses to come.
> 
> Title from Little Shop of Horrors' "Somewhere That's Green."

Peter Hale had lived…not a long life, or a particularly fulfilling one, but, hey, longer than most of his family members. He might have had something to do with the limited longevity of one of said relatives (and a select smattering of others) but if so, that was…bygones. He’d died for it, after all, and he was pretty sure death was supposed to be a great clearing of the karmic slate. He was reborn. A new man. Of sorts.

This was not exactly how things were supposed to go, per his evil master plan. According to that plan (manipulate the pretty girl into digging up his corpse, via a confluence of witchery-related happenings; come back wreaking vengeance, annoying his nephew, and spreading the joy of his murderous sassiness to the masses), he would have returned, triumphant, the once and future Alpha. Except he was no longer an alpha, not even a beta. Unless the _Leporidae_ family was more hierarchical than _Watership Down_ had led him to believe.

Peter Hale—Big Bad and villain extraordinaire—was now, of all things, a rabbit shifter. And not a particularly good one, at that, apparently. He felt his nose twitch, of its own accord, as he glanced up at the redhead now looking around, confused and terrified, like she had come out of a horrible nightmare. Which—no. Peter was well acquainted with his own mind, and while somewhat dark, Machiavellian, and frankly amoral, it was probably no more nightmarish than the average high school social scene.

The girl walks out, as if in a fugue state still. Like she hasn’t even seen the round bundle that now sits in the rubble, a flash of white in darkness. Hasn’t seen _him,_ who was just _in_ her, in a disturbing and probably reprehensible sort of way, but with purely self-preservational intent. And so, left behind by one unsatisfactory vessel, and alone in an even more unsuitable one, Peter hops. Not quite high enough to propel him out of the hole he’s in, but enough to see where he needs to go. Those floorboards aren’t _that_ far above. So he thinks of _hurt_ and _loss_ and the _home_ that he no longer has—hasn’t had for a very long time—and he jumps some more. And finally, after more of the hopping than he would like, he lunges at the pinnacle of the leap and—yes, that’s him on wood flooring again. He makes his way through the burnt wreckage, trying to avoid getting slivers of wood in his ridiculously large paws.

He’d felt undignified, running in his werewolf form, but this was somehow even worse. It was like being on a pogo stick, in a children’s TV program, an up-and-down of nauseating cuteness. And also, just nauseating.

He tries to shift. Yet though he digs at that anchor within him—that which was once _family_ and is now _revenge_ —he lacks something. The claws to latch onto the anchor, perhaps. These giant paws just scrabble about ineffectually, with his mind equally adrift. There’s just…nothing to hold to, anymore. He comes down from the struggle still a rabbit. Stuck. And smaller than he ever thought he could feel.

The night is dark, and full of terror-inducing things for a small, herbivorous creature. Peter knows the way to town, but he doesn’t know, anymore, how _far_ it is.

He doesn’t know what wolves walk the woods. If they’re friend or foe. If, regardless of category, they’d even recognize him, as he is right now.

But as he sits, indecisive in a way he’s never been before, tail to the cold hard ground, he realizes, _there are no friends, anymore._ And his last living family member killed him. He can’t even bring himself to resent that. He would have, he thinks idly, done quite the same.

So he hops off, in a somewhat-straight line, because in addition to his training, his history, his knowledge, he has also seen the movies. He knows that a moving target is harder to hit than a sitting one. He knows that, even in the night, he stands out against the darkness of the landscape. He screams _small pitiful woodland creature_ in a way that makes his teeth _ache,_ and he tries not to think about rodents that must constantly chew at things lest their teeth dig through their very jaws. He refuses to think of himself as a rodent. He is Peter Hale. He has defied Death. Death may have gotten a jab in, what with the new fluffy exterior, but Peter is alive, and he is ready to seek vengeance. And if his killer instinct is currently focusing on leafy green things, in particular—this too shall pass.   

_I’m back,_ he thinks. But no noise in his new repertoire sounds suitably menacing, so he keeps it to himself. As returns go, it’s not quite what he was hoping for.

* * *

Peter ends up, finally, in the alley by his apartment. He’s somewhat surprised to have made it this far without issue, even if it did take him until dawn. He’s more surprised that, in the whole, arduous journey over here, he never thought to consider how he would get _into_ the apartment.

Like any responsible renter, Peter locks all his doors and windows before leaving. And he’s just not a pet person, so there’s no handy door flap. There’s just…nothing.

And even devious minds sometimes need opposable thumbs. 

So Peter hops again, backtracking. To a park, he thinks, except…kids will visit the park. And homeless people. Being neither paternal nor altruistic, Peter does not deal well with these particular people groups, even when in human form himself.

A house with a yard, he thinks—one with a garden, and slightly overgrown grass. That’s what he needs. And so he redirects, toward a post-war neighborhood, the kind built when people had dreams of places that were green and had children they wanted to run around out-of-doors, and other silly things.   

He pushes himself past a brick sign; stumbles through a maze of interlocking curves; flops down a cul-de-sac; trudges down a driveway; slides through a gate; collapses behind the first promising-looking hedge. The search for a garden can wait. 

So the night passes, in what passes for comfort in this new life of his. And when he wakes, it is, for once, not to nightmares of fire and death.

“Oh, it’s a bunny!” squawks an all-to-near voice. 

_No shit, Sherlock._

“Hey there, little buddy! Bet you wished I had some carrots for you to munch, huh? But I’m not a gardener. More a cultivator-of-young-minds type. Equally noble, I assure you. But…guess you’re someone’s pet? I should probably put you in an enclosure. And advertise. Signs. What do you fit in, buddy? I’ve got…shit. Could you get out of a bathtub?”

_Even if it took me hours and multiple concussions.  
_

“OK, so I’m going to reach for you. And you’re gonna be a nice little bunny, aren’t ya, lil guy? A _nice_ little bunny. Who doesn’t want to run away, doesn’t want to bite the nice man…”

_Fuck that noise._ Peter chomps down.

“Hey, no! We went over this! No biting the nice man!”

Peter has never agreed to anything without his lawyer’s prior approval, and he’s a bit skeptical of the niceness of any guy calling himself such. He runs his tongue over his teeth, and regrets again in their lack of sharpness. The man isn’t even bleeding. Peter’s bite used to be a bit more of a deterrent.

The man, looming, has not backed away. Seems, in fact, to be gearing up for another attempted grab. _Fight_ out of the equation, though it has always been Peter’s preferred response, Peter prepares to run, except…there was a hedge in that direction, wasn’t there. And in his daze he feels those arms close around him, and hears that voice, again, triumphant and closer yet: “Gotcha, Bun-bun!”

And with that one horrible name, being captured by an obvious half-wit is no longer the greatest indignity Peter has suffered. 


	2. Chapter 2

Finstock has never had a pet before, of any kind—not because his parents were allergic, or didn’t have a yard, or moved a lot, or any of the reasons parents would normally give to beg off the hassle.

“When you were five and you did that ‘experiment’ to try to make my azaleas grow wings,” his mother had told him, “that’s when I knew you should never be given responsibility for living things. No dog, sweetie.” 

But now, look at him. An adult, with a pet. Admittedly, he’d never imagined himself with a rabbit, even for those few years when he fancied he’d like to be a magician, all escape artistry and flowing capes and unquestioned guyliner. But the universe had seen fit to give him a rabbit, so, like any responsible new pet owner, he would outfit the rabbit. With all of its surprisingly expensive rabbity things, like a hutch, and hay, and toys, and a bunny brush—but not the pet costume that he talked himself out of even though it was kind of awesomely terrible. 

Yet, in the middle of an aisle, faced with a camouflage rainbow of kibbles, Finstock is almost ready to admit defeat. He can barely shop for himself, this is…all too much. Supreme? Complete? All-natural? Gourmet? Organic? Diet? Tropical Carnival? What the fuck, pet food manufacturers of America? It’s like being in one of those health food stores Finstock is convinced function solely as fronts for marijuana dispensaries.

A man passing by glances at him sideways. Finstock can feel the quiet, enigmatic judgment. Everybody, always judging him, for not knowing how to shop, for not knowing how old his rabbit is, or at what age rabbits are even adults, for taking sports too seriously, for yelling at minors, for maybe giving extra credit for sports-related as well as academics-related tasks. Things everyone does, but Finstock is always getting caught doing in public. And judged for.

“Do you need some help?” the man finally asks. 

“Oh…do you…do you work here? Or own a rabbit?”

“Neither, actually. But I am a vet. Have you recently acquired a rabbit?”

There’s a very strange look in this guy’s eyes when he asks that, a strange emphasis on _acquired_. The look of a prosecuting attorney who knows exactly how the defendant’s going to end up confessing to murder, there, on the stand, in the middle of a nervous breakdown nature never intended.

“Err, yes. But I’m not sure how old he is? So I’m not sure which of these to get, since apparently that matters.”

“It does, yes,” the guy says with a bemused look on his face, “for digestive and development reasons, you understand. So you don’t know your rabbit’s age? They didn’t tell you at the pet store?” 

Finstock is feeling even more persecuted than usual. It suddenly feels very illicit to have adopted a bunny he found in his yard. Like he’s a poacher. One of those men who brings home an orangutan in his suitcase, back from an expedition in Borneo, only for it to murder half an apartment building’s worth of people, as an afterthought. As happens. 

“Well, I kind of just found him. I think he used to be a pet, and got abandoned.”

“Or perhaps lost? Have you put up any advertisements? I’d be happy to post some signs at the office. We could even board him for you, until he’s claimed. If you’d like.”

“Oh, no…that’s…I’m quite happy to have him, really. Just need to feed him something other than carrots, yeah?”

“Yes, you certainly do. You should really bring him by for an appointment—I can get an idea of his approximate age, give you some pet care tips. I can also recommend some books, if you’re set on keeping him. You’ll find that rabbits do require some attention—it’s not like having a goldfish, you know.”

“I do, yes. I mean, thanks, I will. Think about, probably do that. Yes. Just..getting some food for now. I’ll…see you.”

“Yes,” the man says, “I’ll see you.”

And _god_ why does this perfectly nice guy sound so sinister? Finstock can hear a silent _in hell_ as an addendum to every vague statement this guy has made. He nods, awkwardly, and just grabs a bag of food. Premium Organic Mix it is, then. 

“Beacon Hills Animal Clinic,” the man calls out, and yes, that’s definitely mocking in the tone, Finstock’s not even being paranoid.

“What?”

“The clinic. We’re the only one in town, of course, but if this is your first pet you might not have known.”

“Right. Thanks, uh—“

“Deaton. Pleasure.”

“Right, yes, thanks.”

And Finstock is halfway home before he realizes he never gave his name in return, but he has the most unsettling feeling that that guy knows it anyway, and might just pop up in the empty passenger seat at any moment, all _have you recently_ and _your pet_ and _if you’d like._

Safe in his own home, Finstock remembers that life is not a movie. That he’ll never need to roll out an inspirational speech for anything more momentous than a pre-game rallying cry. That everything is normal, except now he has a rabbit to feed. A rabbit who is staring at him with something that looks uncannily like amusement and impatience, all at once. God, and he made fun of his mother when she talked about how her dog smiled at her.

“Your food costs more than most of mine does, so you better be appreciative,” he tells the bunny, “let me tell you, if I bought something labeled ‘organic’ at the market, I think my heart would collapse pre-emptively, deprived of the sludge that keeps it feeling nice and cozy.”

In response, one ear flops back, though the other stays up, flamingo-like and frankly adorable. Finstock can handle this, being a pet owner, if something, anything, looks at him like he’s at least half worth listening to.

* * *

Peter had been dissatisfied with the carrots he’d been left with, even as his lying, deceiving taste buds told him they were marvelous. Peter had stewed for what felt like hours, alone with those crunchily addictive carrots, just on the slightly-slimy side, as if they’d been left in the fridge a few days too long. For it turned out that he couldn’t actually manage to get himself out of the bathtub. Not even to flee the alarming, almost-sentient mildew of the shower curtain, which reminded Peter, in a not-so-nostalgic way, of the damp green earth in which he was so recently buried _._ So Peter sat, and plotted, and wished abundant ill fortune upon the strange man who dumped him there, only to disappear _._

But now, this food in front of him that the human has presented him with—it’s worse. It’s insultingly worse. Where’s the raw meat, dripping with blood and stringy with sinew for his fangs to rip at, like the glorious creature he is?

As the first nibbles of kibble go down surprisingly easily, Peter remembers. He is now a goddamned dainty vegetarian.

“This is your home now, Bun-bun," Finstock says, with such obvious pride that Peter almost wishes he could muster up some gratitude. But all he feels is the sickening suspicion that no one will ever be afraid of him again.


	3. Chapter 3

“Today,” Finstock began—conversationally, as any sane man would, when talking to his pet rabbit--“I talked to the kids about the stock market. Which, god knows, the school district wouldn’t be letting me teach impressionable kiddies about if they’d seen the state of my portfolio _._ But—you’re never going to believe this—McCall knew an answer. Knew the _right_ answer. Which, if you know McCall, is like pig-flying-over-a-unicorn levels of improbable. But…” and on he goes.

Peter chuffs. _If he knew McCall,_ indeed. All he did was turn the ungrateful wretch into a werewolf. In a just world, that kid would be scurrying about to do his bidding, not studying to impress that Argent girl. All those blasted, meddling kids and their feelings and their whining about choices and love and other disastrously misguided things. And now they’re out battling a pack of Alphas—or running from the Alphas, or being torn to shreds by Alphas, what does he know? All Finstock will talk about are movies and lacrosse (and, on the really weird days, circumcision—“this essay that just won’t get out of my head”), and all Peter can see when he jumps the absolute highest his ridiculous legs will propel him is row four of Finstock’s excessive DVD collection. Like the man didn’t have Netflix.

His world is a box; a suburban, ranch-style box _._ With further indignities like a _litter box._ At one point, Peter reminisces, pawing woefully at his whiskers, he was a _predator._ A force to be reckoned with. He had claws _._ Teeth that could frighten non-carrot beings. At least his eyes are still a little red.

“Bunnicula!” Finstock exclaims joyfully, the first time he sees a glint of light show them to be so.

 

Peter has never felt less like an Alpha in his life.

* * *

One day Finstock comes home with a little less bombast than usual. He approaches Peter on his hands and knees. And Peter is not afraid—can never imagine fearing this ridiculous man-child—but he is…worried. For his care and feeding to be in the hands of such a man is decidedly worrisome.

“Hey there, buddy,” Finstock says softly, “I’ve done some research. To make you feel at home. Read this article about ‘Building a Relationship with Your Rabbit,’ and ‘Playing with your Pet Bunny,’ so we’re gonna try some things, ok?”

Peter changes his mind. He _is_ afraid. He’s never heard of people who do unspeakable things to bunnies, but if someone were going to try it, Finstock is quite possibly the guy. He grunts, softly, edging away.

Finstock looks delighted. “OH! I know what that means, now! That you’re distressed! That’s—oh.” And his face falls so abruptly that Peter feels almost guilty, to have caused such distress. Except he himself _is_ distressed.

Finstock backs away, Peter takes refuge in his hut, and the pair pass a tense few days before Finstock finally says, sheepishly, “Fine. Maybe you don’t want to be understood? I get that it’s a little presumptuous to think reading some articles mean I’m some kind of pet psychic. But…I just want you to be comfortable.”

Peter will take that. He wiggles his nose encouragingly, and all is as right with the world as it can be, so long as he’s still...this.

 

They watch movies together, Finstock petting him mindlessly, carrying on one-sided coversations about his day, which Peter answers in silent snark. Sometimes Peter catches his teeth grinding, his throat letting out a mortifying purr, and he sees the small self-proud smirk on Finstock’s face. But it’s comfortable, so he does nothing to take it away.

* * *

“OH MY GOD,” says Finstock as he comes home another day. “OH MY GOD OH MY GODOHMYGOD.”

Peter is…well, honestly not all that interested, but he’d rather his food supplier not hyperventilate.

“INDEPENDENCE DAY 2. TWO. THIS IS THE SINGLE GREATEST PIECE OF NEWS IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD. ACROSS ALL UNIVERSES. INDEPENDENCE DAY 2.”

Oh. Well, yes, Peter can see where this might… _excite_ Finstock.

“This is…ugh, you have no idea, do you? You keep falling asleep halfway through the movie.”

_I fall asleep 10 minutes into the movie, because if I made myself stick it out halfway—and why would I do that to myself?—then it gets too loud to sleep through._

“That movie, it speaks to me, on so many levels.”

_And yet you only speak to me on one. One far, far below my own.  
_

“I wish I could take you to the theater with me. It’s… _god,_ it’s over a year away, but it’s going to be amazing. I’ll get the bootleg for you as soon as it’s out, I promise. But if you sit through the first one at least once without falling asleep, I might smuggle you into the theater with me.”

_Such incentive._

But the next time Finstock puts _Independence Day_ on—that evening, naturally; Finstock’s not one for self-denial—Peter suffers through the whole thing. He’s not sure how they’re going to make a sequel out of that. Where do you go after aliens, really? It’s like trying to top an apocalypse, or the invasion of an alpha pack. At some point, things are just going to get ridiculous.

He looks at his housemate, sprawled, snoring, lips shiny with residual popcorn butter, and he resigns himself to a life full of the ridiculous, because otherwise it would all be just a little too tragic.

 

Things settle. Peter settles. It doesn’t even always feel like settling—sometimes, it feels like settling _down,_ and that preposition makes it surprisingly less galling a prospect.

They get to know each other. Peter learns the lay of the house. Defies Finstock’s expectations that he will sleep in that god-awful cage. (“Rabbits are supposed to feel comforted by the enclosure,” Finstock mutters, “What’s wrong with you, you unnatural creature?”)

Peter finds himself listening to someone else, voluntarily, without mocking his every word (just most of them).

“When your best player mysteriously decides to move off to London,” Finstock complains one night, halfway into his fourth self-pitying beer of the evening, “and the school board thinks you’re somehow supposed to win even more games despite that—it’s just a little too much pressure.”

Peter snuffles sympathetically. In another form, he might offer to kill off the board members, one by one. Rip their hearts out and drop them on the doorstep as tribute.

“What am I supposed to do? McCall’s improved, sure, but most of the team, they’re just as hopeless as they ever were. I had to put Bilinski in a game! Bilinski! Who’s lucky to manage not to score for the other team!”

Peter contents himself with some half-hearted jokes about how Stilinski may be, these days, in fact batting for the other team.

“They need something to inspire them. I’ve practiced my speech so many times—“

And god, does Peter know that’s the truth—

“But I think it’s losing its effectiveness. I need something new, to really jazz them up. Like—oh!”

Peter glances up.

“You could be our honorary mascot! I’ll bring you along to games, and you can be my wingman when I give the speeches!”

_Yes,_ Peter thinks, _small non-predatory creatures have always been excellent motivators of sporting excellence._

“Admittedly rabbits don’t have much to do with cyclones, but I can’t really bring one of those with me into the locker room. Although really, it often looks like I have. God, the mess Greenberg can make just by _existing_.”

Peter has been hearing an awful lot about this _Greenberg_ lately, and even though it’s almost all negative, he has a feeling that’s the way Finstock shows his affection. And that notion just doesn’t sit well with him, for some reason.

“I’d probably have to rename you,” Finstock says thoughtfully.

And Peter is now fully on board with this idea.

Peter entertains himself with all of the bloodthirsty, intimidating new names he might get, as honorary mascot. He’s particularly partial to _Cyclotron._ He’s never seen a cyclone, but he feels like the genesis of one, some days. All latent heat and building pressure and the knowledge that something else is building on the horizon, about to make him into something he’s not sure he’s ready to be. But it doesn’t actually happen. Not the unknown, not the mascot-dom. Something about safety hazards, county policies against live mascots. It’s all very disappointing.

The lacrosse team straggles on without Peter’s scintillating presence. Peter languishes indoors, allowed outside only under supervision.

Weeks, maybe months of this pass by. A daily routine of being fed, being abandoned, and finally having this frustrating man who has somehow become his whole world return to him, with words of _school_ and _coworkers_ and _lacrosse_ and _that damned Greenberg_ and sometimes, too, names that Peter remembers. _Lydia_ and _Alison_ and _McCall_ , of how _it’s a shame about the Reyes girl and the Boyd boy_ , and how he _hopes they’ve just run off to San Francisco together to be neo-hippies like normal idiot kids_. Peter does not correct the man, just twitches his nose derisively. Some idiot kids have less room to be idiots than others.

There are names of people who once feared Peter, who think he no longer even exists.

There is no word of Derek.

In the silence that fills his days, Peter starts to compose conversations in his head. With people he’s never met, and then with people that he has. And these conversations, one day, turn into apologies.

First to the girl— _I’m sorry, Lydia. That I took your choice, your agency. That I used you._

Then to the boy— _I’m sorry, Derek. That to avenge my family I hurt it more. That I stole something precious from the world because I couldn’t see that anyone had anything left to live for.  
_

Then to another girl— _I’m sorry, Laura._

He never gets much further than that, for her. There's too much to say, never enough, and he's half-convinced himself that it wasn't him who did those things, anyway. That he was out of his mind, because wouldn't he have had to have been? But the guilt and the memories feel real.

He never apologizes for the deaths that were vengeance—the deaths that were earned, eyes for eyes and teeth for teeth. He never says much for the anonymous dead either--just, _I'm sorry,_ because saying _you were in the way_ seems overly callous, and he has no other reason to give.

And at some point, these apologies, he almost believes that he means them.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

As he does, every so often, without even thinking about it anymore, Peter mentally tugs at the _revenge_ anchor in his mind, not expecting any give, and not getting any. But he is surprised to feel that while the _revenge_ anchor still lacks traction, the _family_ that was once there and then gone is back, somewhat. Different, somehow, but there’s an anchor there that is bright and clean in a way that nothing inside Peter has been for a very long time. 

And so Peter paws tentatively at this shiny new thing, inside him, and he feels a catch, and a change. And then he’s…naked. But human. So wonderfully, amazingly human.

It’s a relief, in so many ways, but it also brings back thoughts of all the things Peter’s been trying not to think about—the things he knew he couldn’t do anything about as a rabbit, so why worry? And now, all those many things he’s been waiting for his transformation in order to do, they’re back on his mind, with a vengeance. But right now the first thing on his mind is, unfortunately, how very long it’s been since he’s had sex. And how, standing, mouth suggestively agape, right there in front of him, is a perfectly nice, single male, who Peter happens to know has also gone some time without sex.

And if Finstock is not quite so toned or werewolfy as Peter normally likes them, well, yelling at people playing lacrosse has nonetheless apparently done some nice things to his body. Peter’s not complaining. There’s something to be said for proximity, and maybe also for the guy having been the one to feed him for the past few months.

Peter keeps reminding himself that there are things he needs to be doing—finding his nephew and his ridiculous pack, dragging them out of whatever mess they’re inevitably in; reclaiming his identity; finding a place to live; making sure the world knows that Peter Hale is once again a force to be reckoned with. But there, in front of him, is this ridiculous, marvelous man, with the tufty hair and the kinda crazy eyes that just _speak_ to him.

And so Peter’s first action, as human, is to do what any rabbit would, upon seeing such a marvelous specimen.

He jumps.

There’s some pawing, and licking, and then Peter’s mind begins to remind him of all the actions that being human enables, and then there is some groping, kissing, and tonguing, and all of it, Peter thinks, with the little thought-capacity he has left, is going quite well. The subject is, after some slight delay, responsive, there’s just the right amount of heat and friction, and then—he’s being pushed away.

“The hell???” Finstock demands. Looking confused, bewildered, _deliciously_ disheveled. “You’re—not—you? Bun-bun? But not— _bunny_ Bun-bun?”

And little Peter, so long denied and all set for a good time, unceremoniously deflates, all at the sound of that one blasted name.

“ _Not Bun-bun,_ ” Peter growls out. “My name is PETER. My name, no matter what unfortunate form I am in, HAS ALWAYS BEEN PETER. Or,” and here his smile crooks a bit, at the corners, in the way of charming serial killers everywhere, “you can call me _Alpha._ ”

Finstock backs away, in that he steps backwards half a foot before meeting the wall. This is, Peter thinks vaguely, the wrong direction for Finstock to be going. But it also feels right, that his prey is wary—it is _right_ that he should be feared.

And yet something that he does not quite understand holds him back from pursuing the weakness, from exploiting it for all that it’s worth, from nipping at, from _sinking_ into that pale, tilted neck.

He feels his fangs retracting, and though he is sorry to feel them go—he needs, desperately, to have that confirmation that he is again in control—he does not reach for the anger to bring them back. He looks, instead, at the man before him. Finstock. _Bobby._ And the utter cuteness of the name, it makes more sense now, seeing the man all flustered and panicked, backed into a corner, pupils blown and smelling of confusion and terror and yet also, Peter is pleased to note, of unfulfilled lust.

“Peter,” he says again, this time as one might to a cornered, fluffy animal, and the irony is not lost upon him. “My name’s Peter, but you did—quite unforgivably, really—call me Bun-bun. I have been…not myself. And I thank you for the care you have taken, while I was in a weakened state. But now,” says Peter, as, unable to help himself, he feels his voice shift into a growl, “ _let me take care of you._ ”

The man in front of him shivers. And Peter knows he’s on thin, thin ground here. That a better man would step back, step down. _Talk. Explain. Ask._

Peter hasn’t been the better man in a very long time, and despite whatever conscience is trying to regenerate within him, he has no real intent to be one now.  Yet he feels himself holding back, wishing for that lust, that oh-so-tempting lust, to be unclouded by fear.

And it almost kills him, when that man licks his tongue across his lips. Nervously, not seductively, but it’s not like intent has ever had much import for Peter.

“I’m backing off,” Peter says, “but we should talk. So that you understand. I know you, even if you don’t really know me yet. I’d like you to. But I have things I need to do first—“ and _god_ but he doesn’t want to—“so I need to leave to do those things. But I’ll be back. And I realize it’s a lot to ask, but I’d like you not to freak out too much in the interim. Or, really, to think about this much at all. Just—rest? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

And before he can talk himself out of it, before those soft, moist lips can tempt him out of it, Peter’s out the door. That door that just earlier today was such an impossible barrier, and now it just—opens. Into the world.

* * *

It’s somewhat anticlimactic, to find the Alpha Pack’s all taken care of. Derek’s pack is not entirely intact, but the boy himself is, and that‘s all Peter can care about. There is, too, the girl— _Cora_. He’s not wholly convinced she’s real. He was there, after all. Dying, amidst the dead. And he thinks he would’ve felt her still alive, the part of him that’s achingly, brokenly aware of the family he has and had and lost. But Derek is satisfied—heartbreakingly open when he looks at her—and Peter will let that be, for now. Accept that there are miracles, as well as magic, that sometimes the world spits back up things it had sucked into darkness.

They’re not having a touching family reunion, but Peter didn’t expect one. He’s somewhat surprised there have been no renewed attempts on his life yet, and he feels uneasy, waiting for a blow that never comes. Stiles mutters something about _dead things that ought to stay dead_ , and no one offers any hugs, but this is all still a far tamer reception than expected. But it’s when Peter feels the strange urge to bare his neck to his petulant, broody nephew that Peter comes to a startling, horrifying conclusion. He may be able to be human again, but he hasn’t returned to alpha status. He may not have even returned to full werewolf status, despite the fangs, because he’s feeling alarmingly like prey. It makes him back off of some of the things he was going to say, tone down some of the apologies he was going to make—make sure that the things he confesses to are only the things of which his current audience was already aware. It’s hard to keep track of what that is, exactly, but he’s trying, because he’s pretty sure they should be trying to kill him, and would like to make sure they aren’t given new reasons to.

He tells them things like _I can help you now_ , even though he’s not sure that’s true. They seem to be doing surprisingly well for themselves, all things considered. He does know things—people, lore, legend, tradition, thousands of ways to kill and die—but he’s also the one whose knowledge and connections ended up turning him into a rabbit, although he hasn’t told them that, and doesn’t intend to. Derek said only, “You smell different,” and Peter said, “Dying will do that to you.” The death thing, it’s turning out to be an excellent way to derail sticky questions.

“Stiles,” Peter calls, suddenly.

The boy jumps half a foot. Jeez, such a nerve case. Almost bite a kid once, and they’re twitchy forever.

“I need a book from you—something, general intro-to-werewolves sort of thing.”

“What?” Stiles asks, “Why would you think I have something like that?”

“Derek told me you’re writing one. Which is, of course, a monumentally bad idea and a horrible security risk, but as long as you can pass it off as fiction, fine. Anyway, I need a copy.”

“Right, the book thing, about that,” says Stiles, scratching at his neck, “it’s…maybe not exactly what I told Derek it was.”

Derek’s head pops up, and he gives the boy a look of such unsurprised resignation that Peter wonders how many things these two aren’t telling each other, and how much they know about each other, regardless.

“What is it then?” asks Derek, carefully, “since it was definitely about werewolves, and very…detailed.”

“Heh. Yes. Well. Itmightbeporn.”

Peter snorts. Of course it is. Though that, actually, is just as well.

“OK, give me a copy.”

Derek, who has been engaging in some silent choking in the corner, turns sharply to Peter, “What the hell? You just come here, ‘Hey, back from the dead, miss me?’ and offer some platitudes like they fix things, and then you ask my…Scott’s… _friend_ for his… _book_?”

“Yes,” says Peter smoothly, “that does seem to sum it up rather nicely.” He would let it go with that—he’s trying to move beyond being an instigator, he just got through with his mostly well-intentioned apologies, and they were not perhaps all that well-received, so he’s on shaky ground, but…”Would you rather, then, that no one else see Stiles’… _book_? Something you’d like to keep for yourself, nephew?”

The sputtering is thoroughly unbecoming to an Alpha werewolf. He used to be so marvelously stoic, and now—buddy-buddy with teenagers and a bundle of spastic sputtering.

“Fine, whatever. Stiles, just email him your book. God knows I don’t know what he wants with it, so you probably shouldn’t ask.”

Stiles scrunches his face. “Dude, this is, like, the next great American sensation. It’s gonna be bigger than _Twilight,_ more people are going to hate it than ever even read Bukowski, and you want me to give my unpublished masterpiece to the zombie master-villain?”

The volume of that sigh, it’s why folklore claims wolves can blow down buildings. “Yes, Stiles. Peter’s not going to publish it, he’s just going to scar minds with it, I’m sure. All fine.”

Peter smiles, delighted that his nephew is turning out to be a better judge of character in his advancing years. “Indeed. Innocent mind-scarring, nothing more.”

“Fine,” Stiles huffs, “take it and use my beautiful prose to your evil ends. I feel dirty.”

“Thank you,” Peter replies. “Bobby will appreciate your efforts, I’m sure. He does _so_ love your writing style.” He pushes Stiles off the keyboard, types a few lines in preface. “All right, all good now. Boyd—deliver this for me?”

“What the hell? Bobby who? You’re—that’s my actual laptop, dude, I was EMAILING it to you, you do understand email, right? Or are all of you Hales just-- What are you--?” And now the Stiles boy is sputtering, too. Such a pair, the two of them.

“I don’t know his email address, so that’s not very helpful, is it? And since my nephew apparently thought a juicer was a more important appliance than a printer—“

“Hey! My purchasing habits are none of your business—do you even have a _house_ right now?”

The silent beta in the corner looks uninterested in the whole exchange, but his eyes track it closely.

“Boyd,” Peter warns, “I may not be your alpha, but I would not particularly recommend going against my wishes. Right now, I wish you to deliver this. Promptly, politely, without harm to the package or its recipient. _Now.”_

Derek looks like he’d like to take back control of his own pack, but when has he even had control? Peter can see the indecision on his face, and he knows Derek will wallow in self-doubt just long enough for him to push Boyd out the door. “114 Maylene Drive—in that subdivision just past downtown,” he says, “ _Do_ hurry.”

And then the laptop is on its way, and Peter sprawls back on the loft’s stairwell, filling the space in a way that says he deserves it, requires it, owns it. “All right, then. I’ve got at least 30 minutes for you to yell at me. Get it out now.”

* * *

His nephew taken care of—and he did have _a lot_ to yell about—Peter almost flees town. He’s got no reason to be here, anymore. There’s not really anyone left to take vengeance on. There are a lot of people to hurt, hurting already, and he’s not wholly averse to the notion of causing pain for its own sake, but there’s something about having a second chance at life—however wrongfully that chance was wrested from the natural order of things—that makes him think of just letting this town be, for once. It’s suffered a lot, disproportionately so. It’ll suffer more—the very presence of Derek and his pack, however benign they wish to be, and of Argents, however morally conflicted they are, will ensure that. But there may be something to be said for letting other people be the cause of their own problems. For the claws at the throats of innocents to be someone else’s. He can appreciate violence vicariously. He can even, perhaps, appreciate peace.

So he’s not sure exactly why he finds himself back at that familiar doorstep, except that he said he would return, and he didn’t want that to be a lie. When the door opens to his knock, Peter is half-surprised. When a hand waves him inside, he is even more so. The hand—so blunt, so common, and yet so _lickable—_ doesn’t touch, but it doesn’t push him away, either. So Peter steps inside, and out of the cold.


	5. Chapter 5

 

_Don’t panic,_ Finstock thinks. The greatest advice ever given. He’s got it monogrammed on a towel. But it’s not really working, in practical application.

A rabbit, which was then a man. A man, who was then kissing him. A student he once pulled out of a crowd mid-lacrosse game, whose disappearance and reappearance have never been fully explained, who is now handing him a laptop with a look that simultaneously says _I don’t want to know please let me just walk away_ and also nothing at all.

So, that. His day.

And then, after he’s let the boy leave—no words exchanged, even, what words are there?—and he starts looking at what’s open on the screen, his day just gets even weirder.

_This should prove informative, and probably entertaining. Read, and we can discuss later. Ignore any notes referring specifically to “sourwolves,” as well as any accompanying illustrations. –PH,_ reads a note at the top of the document. And after that, centered and in bold: _You and Your Werewolf: A Guide, by Stiles Stilinski._

And after that…holy shit.

Finstock’s always been up for just about anything, even things that seem questionable in retrospect. It’s gotten him into trouble with a range of authority figures.

Once in college, at the team’s end-of-the-season party, extraordinarily high on substances he never thought to ask the names of, he declared his love to a rosebush before puking on it. So his attraction to strange things maybe has some precedent.   

So, yes, Finstock has been in altered mindsets, and done questionable things. But what he is thinking right now—and _considering_ right now—looking at _annotated diagrams of_ right now (“not to scale,” a footnote helpfully mentions)—those are scaring even him.

But that man—Peter, of indeterminate last name and even more indeterminate origin—he kind of looked like an Viking pirate mobster, and that’s an intersection of some of Finstock’s greatest weaknesses. And he had those too-familiar eyes that never seemed like they belonged in a rabbit. The rest of him looked a little familiar, too, though Finstock can't pinpoint why. So when Finstock answers the door, he waives caution and waves in the piratical not-bunny-man. He doesn’t say _mi casa es su casa,_ like he does for all guests, or duck to avoid hair-ruffling, as he does when his mom comes over (maybe more often than other guests). He just waves silently, steps a little to the side, and lets in what he’s fairly sure you’re supposed to shut out.

* * *

Once inside the door, Peter takes off his coat, hangs it up, all civility and normality. Finstock is in a daze. He knows what normal feels like—something very much like this—but it’s not what he was expecting, and so it feels terribly wrong, that eye of the storm of the horror movie wherein everyone is happy and it hurts to see them so, knowing it can’t last.

Then the veneer cracks, and Finstock finds himself pushed against the wall, a hand behind his head cushioning the impact only slightly and not enough, because all the air is gone from his lungs.

“I’m back,” Peter says.

Finstock thinks his answering wheeze speaks for itself.

“Apologies, for the pushiness—it’s how my family shows affection,” Peter says, no apology in his voice at all.

“That’s—you should maybe work on that,” Finstock gasps out.

“Should,” says Peter thoughtfully, “has never been my favorite of modifiers.”

Murmurs and ramblings and quips that cover for emotion merge into licks and nibbles and slow, wet kisses: their circling continues, physical, dialogic, half-foreplay and half-forestalling. Finstock remains confused; Peter bulldozes. It is both alarming and comforting, how little Finstock cares that he has no idea of anything beyond the electricity moving through his veins. This that’s building between them, it’s all, in its marvelous newness and immediacy and realness, just tinder. For the flames that he feels in the man against him. A flamestarter, like in the movies, the ones who are always out of control and hurting those they love. 

“I trust the book explained some things?” Peter asked, “although, I can’t speak to the accuracy of all of it. Teenage wish fulfillment, mostly. But enough truth it should have helped? I’ll clarify. Ask me anything, sweets. Dirty things, preferably.” 

“What _are_ you? _Who_ are you? What—“

  

“What was all that—“

  

“all that _before, before_ —“

 

“If you’d let me _talk—“  
_

* * *

But Peter knows where talking leads—it leads to recriminations, and regret—usually not his, but sometimes he feels it anyway, vicariously, the shade of an emotion he’s tried to evolve beyond.

"Peter Hale. Friendly neighborhood werewolf, former coma victim, former pet rabbit, here for the taking,” he says, "at least for you, Fin."  

Finstock seems unsure of how to take any of that, and ignores all but the last: “Don’t call me that. It makes me feel like a high-schooler who’s about to burst into song.” 

“But don’t I make you feel that way?” Peter pouts, “all hormones and pheromones and love songs? And Bobby just sounds ridiculous, unless you’re a Kennedy.” 

“You—“ Finstock sputters, “you don’t—“ 

Peter thinks Finstock might be trying to say _you don't have the right,_ which is true but never very much of an obstacle; or perhaps _you don't answer anything directly,_ which is also true and not likely to change.

But Peter can try to be serious: “You claimed me, you know—told me I was yours, this was my home,” he says, “and I’m going to hold you to that.”

“But I didn’t know, at the time—“ 

“Tut, tut,” Peter chides, “Love is unconditional. And you took care of me."

* * *

And Finstock could talk about how ridiculous that notion is, and, moreover, about how there are many kinds of love, most of which do not involve wall-sex—which is where this feels like it’s headed. But…a lot of strange things happen in this town, and none of them have ever felt quite this right. And though a lot of this too-brief discussion has sounded glib, that last bit didn't, even though he thinks it was probably supposed to. He's a bit of a sucker for the whole hardened-yet-vulnerable alpha thing. So later with the talking, and now with the…oh, that’s nice. 

“I knew you as a _pet,_ ” he chokes out, “a nice, cuddly, friendly, _pet._ Maybe even as an occasionally docile, occasionally bites-the-hand-that-feeds-it, uncommunicative _friend._ But that doesn’t mean we should speed into—“

“Into what now?” Peter asks silkily, interrupting the harsh panting that Finstock’s devolved into.

“Into _this!_ ”

Peter scrapes his teeth, gently, at Finstock’s neck. It almost tickles. It definitely tingles, spreading throughout his body in tendrils of heat and promise. The slight stubble on Peter’s cheek rubs against Finstock’s collarbone as Peter tilts his head up, lips askew with mischief and eyes crinkled with silent laughter.

* * *

“You didn’t know,” says Peter, “and that’s why I forgive you. For the bathtub, and the rabbit food, and the litter box, and the name-that-shall-not-be-named. But now you know—I’m yours. More importantly, you’re mine. And I’ll call you _pet_ if you like the role-reversal and a little role-play—I’m very flexible that way—but so you’re clear, we’ve moved beyond ‘How to Bond with Your Bunny.’”

“Oh,” says Finstock weakly, “yeah, I was getting that idea. But I’m not entirely sure what exactly we’ve moved on _to--_ ”

“Then I’m clearly not doing it right—but if you need a name,” Peter purrs, tongue still curling and coiling at Finstock’s jaw, “let’s try ‘ _You and Your Werewolf: Appendix C_.’”

A finger traces a careful outline of the growing bulge in his jeans.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Finstock gasps, “OK, talk later.”

And Peter just smiles—the smile of a Mona Lisa with bodies under the floorboards—and this time, as he angles in to that oh-so-delightful interstices of neck and shoulder, he lets his teeth slide all the way in.  

Finstock’s shriek is something to behold. Though not something Peter’s sensitive ears really wanted to behold, quite honestly.

“Holy shit what the fuck ow ow ow GODDAMMIT BUN-BUN!”

And there went the sexy-times. Again.

* * *

“You obviously haven’t read enough werewolf novels, Fin. When you get bitten, you’re supposed to feel tingly and orgasmic, not scream like a stuck pig, or yell out emasculating nicknames. It’s supposed to be sexy, you know.”

“Well, y _ou’re_ supposed to be sexy.” And, god, Finstock regrets the things that come out of his mouth sometimes.

“And I am. So at least one of us is on script.” And then Peter sighs, because some things can only be put off for so long, no matter how skilled one is at the repartee of avoidance.

They talk about things. Peter even occasionally provides direct answers. But when Finstock asks where Peter will go now, and Peter gives him a wide-eyed gaze, limpid and languid with a mocking semblance of innocence, says “Go? And why would I go?” that’s just all Finstock can take.

“You can’t stay here!”

“We’ve been roommates for months. You’re used to me.”

“As a RABBIT. A small, furry little thing that I had to feed twice a day!”

“And now you can feed me three times a day. Progress, what?”

“Things don’t _work_ that way. You, you need to move out—and then we’ll _get to know each other_ before you maul me, and we’ll…be _normaler_ than—“

Peter isn’t even hiding his laughter. “ _Normaler_ than what, exactly? If you think anyone in this town is _normal,_ that’s probably a good sign they’re about to die, babe.”

There are no responses, sometimes, because as frustrating as he is—so _purposefully_ frustrating—Peter is also often right.

In the hours of talking—spread across days that turn into weeks, because Finstock never can quite get him to leave, though he does convince him to take the couch, for a while (“You’re getting the chiropractor’s bill, Fin. Just because I can heal doesn’t mean my spine doesn’t cry out in protest”)—Finstock learns things. Learns that his roommate-and-possible-other-things has a tragic past, is probably psychotic, and is certainly dangerous, for all that he is no longer the alpha wolf he sacrificed so much to become. It’s the only time that Peter seems the least bit vulnerable, those moments when he looks at the moon, or lets slip some bitter comment about his nephew, the _Alpha._ Peter never shifts into a wolf, or a half-wolf, nor back into a rabbit, and Finstock doesn’t even know if any of these options is possible. 

At nights, Finstock traces the lines on that otherwise perfect forehead on that all-too-perfect face, and his heart breaks at what put them there. He doesn't ask all the things he wants to, even though some of them-- _what did you intend to happen, when you came back?_ \--seem important. There are a million words and deeds that might cause it all to break, and Peter’s already been pieced back together more than anyone ought to have been. 

Finstock is selfishly glad that he didn’t know Peter before. Can pretend that was a different person. That maybe it was biology behind the horrible things Peter refers to so glibly. That the glibness is just a cover for a deep and piercing internal struggle. Finstock convinces himself of these things, because he needs to believe them. He lets himself ignore things, be seduced by a charm he knows to be skin-deep. If he were counseling a student, he would say  _run away._ But he lets himself be drawn in closer. He holds up a portrait of the man he lives with (the man who lives, who says lovely things through lovely lips and makes him feel  _whole_ ) to the fragmented image he gathers of the man who lived before, and he calls the dissonance  _change._ Because people can. He believes that. 

The day he finds out that Peter—his Peter—was the one responsible for Lydia, lying broken and bloody on the lacrosse field—Finstock throws up, heaving, until he’s not sure he’s got anything left within him. 

* * *

He tries to push Peter toward reconciliation with his family, instead of this eerily calm détente they have going, wherein everyone pretends nothing happened and never thinks about anything else.

But Peter only grudgingly sees them at all, and he drags Finstock along as a buffer. In the awkward silences and in the even-more-awkward small talk, Finstock hears echoes of who these people used to be, when they loved each other and were loved in return. 

They invite Peter to run with them, once--and even Finstock can tell it's a big step for them to offer. But Peter says no. No, thank you. He's softer around them, after that, but they don't offer again and Peter doesn't bring it up, either. And maybe it’s pride, maybe it’s guilt, maybe it’s fear—because eventually Finstock finds out that all Peter can shift into with any reliability is Bun-bun, a pile of fluff and whiskers, sometimes with terribly out-of-place fangs. Peter hides that weakness with all that’s in him, and Finstock, if he were a little less trusting, would fear for his life, as the only one to know that secret. He can keep a secret, especially for Peter. But sometimes he wishes someone else were keeping that secret, too. 

He tries to downplay it—there’s nothing wrong with rabbits, after all, and it’s more shape-shifting ability than 99% of the world has (although Peter snorted at that number, so maybe not). When Peter first confessed he’s no longer an alpha at all, and a werewolf only in heart and mind and memory, Finstock just said, “This means I don’t get the knot thing your werewolf porn book promised, doesn’t it? Do you have _any_ exotic genetalia to offer me?” 

“I told you to ignore the diagrams, “ snorted Peter. But then Peter demonstrated that he is quite capable of doing exotic things with standard genetalia, and Finstock got over a disappointment he won’t admit to ever having. 

So the things they don’t talk about, they get talked around, and Finstock thinks eventually it’ll just be this thing in the background, one of those bullets that you walk around with because it’d kill you to come out but only hurts a little if it stays in. A lump under the skin that most people never notice. 

This person he’s living with, he feels like caged danger, barely harnessed. He’s not sure Peter is a nice person, and even less sure why he likes him anyway. Every time he learns something new about Peter’s past, he questions his judgment even more. Sometimes Peter says things about an even more distant past—one in which, unfathomable as it may seem, Peter was happy, well-adjusted, even—and Finstock looks at him anew, trying to see that person. Peter always tries to distract him with a lewd comment— _why look but not touch, Fin? I can do a strip-tease, if your imagination’s not doing the job right—_ but Finstock, though easily distracted by Peter at all times, can’t always let himself take the easy exits offered. He tries to pry. And Peter closes up, and the dance repeats. 

When Finstock gets tired of the weight of the past, too, they watch movies, and go out to eat, and cuddle, and do couple-y things with an ease and an underlying sincerity that surprises him. He lets himself be teased about his taste in movies, his love of _Mad Money_ , his stereotypical bachelor slobbishness, his uni-testicularness.

“It’s not something I’m ashamed of,” he says, even though it’s not exactly something he wants to talk about, either. It just is.

“Yes,” says Peter, lazily licking at that singular appendage, “I did hear that you told the whole school about it.”

“Not the _whole_ school,” Finstock says, with a strangled noise, “and it just— _hnng—_ slipped out. But it was supposed to make me— _ugh_ —more relatable. So they weren’t so intimidated by me.”

A long silence follows, and Peter stops his attentions and snorts.

“Intimidated by you, babe?”

“Hey, I can be intimidating.”

“Even as a rabbit I can’t find you intimidating, Fin.”

“I liked you better before the running commentary.”

“You like me better now that I can suck your cock.”

“Well, that’s…not wrong.”

And Peter licks his lips, with that predatory grin that still makes Finstock want to duck and cover—cover certain bits in particular—and proceeds to make Finstock remember why he doesn’t just ditch this for a real rabbit, or a person with fewer issues and cleaner hands. Reasons like _oh that feels amazing_ and _do that again_ and _oh god your mouth_ and _Peter I love you,_ except not that last one, because he doesn’t, and even if he did it’s far too soon to _say_ so, except—

Peter has stopped, despite being expressly ordered not to, and looks up at Finstock with a strange expression on his face. “Say that again?”

“DON’T STOP, you idiot. It was meant to be mindlessly encouraging babble, not to make you stop!”

“Huh,” Peter says, tracing whorls in the trail on Finstock’s stomach, “I could’ve sworn you said something about ‘I love you truly, madly, and deeply, Peter Hale, O Love and Light of My Life. No?”

“NO.”

“How disappointing.”

“Unless you…wanted? To hear something like that? Not that I…? Peter? Feel free to jump in here?”

Peter’s nose twitches. He seems on the verge of saying something. And Finstock can _feel_ what it’s going to be, and then—there’s a rabbit beside him, instead of an emotionally stunted but thoroughly attractive man.

“Ugh,” grunts Finstock, “Fairy tales are supposed to have better endings than this. Even the fractured ones.”

Rabbit-Peter just kicks him, gently.

“Oh, should I say it for you, then? How did you say—oh, yes. ‘I love you truly, madly, and deeply, Bobby Finstock, O Love and Light of My Life.’ Did I get that right? We never finished our bunny-bonding, since that apparently creeped you out, but I still read all the online articles even without you. I can interpret bunny-speak with the best of them.”

He’s expecting a harder kick, or for Peter to hop off and hide himself somewhere, but to his surprise the rabbit just rubs its chin against his thigh, and rests there, like he belongs.

“Fine, be like that. But you’re not getting a declaration from me until you’re in human form, because I expect reciprocation in all things. It’s such a shame, too, because I’m pretty great at the romantic declarations. I’ve been readying this speech for years.”

There’s a stirring and stretching and breaking that Finstock can’t even watch, and then his lap is full of fully-adult-human-male Peter Hale.

“Well, I’d hate for all that John Hughes dialogue to go to waste.”

“Hey, no! I have very varied source materials!”

“Go on, then.”

“Good morning. In less than an hour, aircraft from here—“

Peter snorts. “Yeah, I unite in common interest with you, too. Happy now?”

And Finstock maybe kind of is. 


End file.
